


What do they Know?

by RonnaWren (Wolf_of_Lilacs)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Betrayal, M/M, Second Person, Slightly Experimental, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end should have been expected, but Priebus refused to see the obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What do they Know?

**Author's Note:**

> Reince Priebus is a fool, and I pity him.
> 
> Also, the sex scenes are given short shrift because ... I'm too ace to write them.

The beginning of the race: Seventeen candidates. Nine or ten different visions. And then Donald Trump, the candidate who was of an entirely different breed. Donald Trump: unconventional, uncouth, unbearable. But people love him. What are you missing?

The first debate: God, Trump's unbelievable. If any of the others said half of what he says, then their poll numbers would plummet, never to recover. Yet he rises! How?

The loyalty pledge: Trump makes it without a fuss. "I'm the best one to beat her," he boasts to you. "I need the Republican Party behind me."

You nod silently. He mustn't know yet that you will do anything to help him win.

The first time: Your umpteenth meeting with him is over. Before he leaves, you kiss him. He responds with typical brashness. His lips are firm. He tastes of the Big Mac he ate before he arrived. You embrace him tightly; he holds you in return. Later, when he thrusts inside of you, you wonder why it is true conservatives condemn this to hell.

During Mitt Romney's remarks: Who gives a damn about his failed business ventures and his virulent racism and xenophobia? you think, annoyed. It isn't as if the Party as a whole doesn't agree. Donald is right. Romney had failed. Donald will redeem you.

After the infamous eleventh debate: You berate him. "Your implications were uncalled for! Democrats watch these debates for kicks, and you have done nothing to change that!"

"I'm sorry, Reince. I was only responding to Little Marco's equally uncalled for attack. You should be blaming him, not me."

"Thank you for reaffirming the loyalty pledge," you continue, briefly grasping his hand. Trump smirks.

"Marco still started it," he adds, and kisses you.

You agree reluctantly and duly reprimand him.

The final debate: You implore all the candidates to be civil; it is the most coherent debate of the entire primary season. When Trump says "Make me president" with cinematic effect, you fantasize standing next to him on Inauguration Day, basking in his triumph. (But you would never be so close to him on Inauguration Day. Not you, the ultimately inconsequential Party Chair.)

"A better debate I have not witnessed," you congratulate all the candidates, but your praise is meant only for one.

The March 31 meeting: "The fucking nomination process is rigged against me," Trump complains, glaring at you from across your desk. You hate his angry expression.

"It isn't," you attempt to assure him. "Even if you get nothing out of Colorado, you have a fantastic chance of winning."

He is incredulous. "I'd better," he replies.

You and he embrace before his departure. "Thanks for not trying to stop me, like other idiots," he whispers in your ear, all animosity apparently forgotten. (You ignore his implied insult.) "You're a really damn great chairman." You smile, anxieties put to rest. The kissing—which leads to the height of intimacy—is the best yet. 

Following Cruz's delegate sweeps: "There are people who consider you the worst possible candidate. You need to change enough to convince them."

"What? I'm obviously unstoppable. Lyin' Ted's wins are just flukes."

"Maybe," you allow, "But take no chances."

Perhaps it is a good thing he ignores you.

Criticism: You read an editorial that calls for your resignation if Donald is nominated. The author lampoons you for not taking a stand against Donald. Why should you stand against him? He is ... beyond reproach.

What do they know? What do they know of the man that truly resides under that flamboyant, punch-drunk exterior? What do they know of the way he sits with his arm thrown over your shoulders, your head resting against his chest? What do they know of those moments wherein he tells you that he would do so much for you? What do they know about anything?

The night of the five-state sweep, at the Time 100 Gala: He sits a table away from you. He says he'll leave shortly to give his victory speech. But the time stretches out, and he remains.

Another state called. The AP is projecting he will win all of them. You tell him this before he leaves. He is triumphant. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he throws over his shoulder as he departs.

You wish he had stayed. The room feels empty without him. 

Indiana: Cruz and Kasich both drop out at your suggestion. At least, you believe it's because you recommended it. You congratulate Donald for his all-but-certain victory. He is surprisingly circumspect. "Sure I knew I could win," he quips. "But this is ..."

"What?"

"The greatest thing to ever happen to me," he finishes. "And to America."

You do not disagree. But you do wonder if he had intended to say something else.

Nomination acceptance: He stands at the front of the convention hall, his success making him almost luminous. You gaze at him, enthralled. He does not catch your eye. He does not acknowledge you.

Betrayal: You are ousted. You do not understand. Why? You have made his nomination possible, and now he tells you that he no longer needs you. "But I did everything for you," you protest weakly.

"You should have endorsed me from the beginning," he responds. "I mean, I definitely could have done this without your unnecessary meddling. You're not the voters. You don't matter anymore."

You blink in confusion. What is this? Even Chris Christie was treated better than this.

"Oh. I almost forgot," he continues. "I plan on outing you as soon as I get the chance."

"Outing him?" a nearby reporter asks, intrigued.

"Ha! Yeah. Reince here is really, really into men."

The reporter writes furiously. You feel all the blood rush from your face. "I see I will never be wanted here again," you note. "Fine, but ..."

"I have evidence," he adds. "The guy you're fucking was photo-shopped out by my team. Because God knows that would make his future difficult."

The still-scribbling reporter raises an eyebrow.

When the story breaks, Donald's poll numbers are more or less unaffected; he gains a few democratic votes here and there. He really does appear to be unstoppable.

Election results: He loses in a landslide, by a wider margin than George McGovern. You are bitter. If he hadn't ousted you, the GOP would not be dead. You vote for him, because you have no choice. But his loss has become your greatest failure. And your spurned love, your greatest regret.


End file.
